


anglerfish

by envysparkler



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Broken Bones, Enemy to Caretaker, Exhaustion, Gen, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 15:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30125073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler
Summary: Robin was having a horrible night even before the Red Hood showed up.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 114
Kudos: 870
Collections: Jason and Tim Enemy-to-Caretaker, consider this your oscar





	anglerfish

**Author's Note:**

> Your irregular reminder that the author has never heard of canon.
> 
> I'm not exactly happy with this, and I wrote a good chunk of it when I was in an angry-exhausted-upset mood, so the emotional beats are definitely off, but I didn't want to go back and edit it, so it was either post as-is, or let it languish in my folder forever.
> 
> Content warning: non-graphic unnamed character deaths.

It started with his dad.

Their report cards had come home—well, actually, their report cards had come home three days ago, and the teacher was beginning to ask pointed questions about getting it signed and returned, and said teacher had _already_ asked a bunch of pointed questions that time Tim’s concealer had smudged off to reveal the edges of a brilliant black eye, so Tim wasn’t in the mood to listen to his dad waving it off again.

He’d stalked in front of the TV and held out the report card—he was supposed to head over to Wayne Manor in an hour, and he still needed to finish his homework, he didn’t have time to be placating and gentle to soothe his father’s temper.

Sure enough, his dad snatched the report card with a scowl, narrowed eyes flicking over the grades.

Tim really should’ve waited for his dad to sign it in a moment of inattention, because now he had to listen to a forty-minute tirade on how Tim’s three Bs were an affront to the Drake name and Tim would end up working as a janitor somewhere because he was useless and lazy and there was absolutely no way he was going to get a job for Drake Industries with grades like these.

And then he’d been locked in his room to ‘study’, though Tim had no idea what that was supposed to mean because his midterms were two weeks ago and finals weren’t for another month.

This meant that he had to stay for another two hours before his dad fell asleep, he _still_ hadn’t gotten that goddamn report card signed, and he was late to patrol.

Bruce didn’t say anything, but Tim could feel his disappointment, and it felt like everything was going wrong—he had to check his utility belt three times because he kept miscounting the batarangs, Bruce had to spend fifteen minutes catching him up to speed on their latest case because Tim couldn’t get there earlier, and his cape had gotten snagged in the door of the Batmobile.

Even patrol hadn’t gone right. Thank god that the Batsignal wasn’t lit, and there was no Rogue attack, because Tim could only imagine how badly he would’ve messed that up. He’d only been allowed back on patrol last week, after his injuries had fully healed and Bruce had finally concluded that the Red Hood was sticking to Crime Alley and unlikely to go hunting for Tim or anyone else.

Bruce had to save him twice when his grapple failed to latch properly, and the man had eventually called it a night at twelve, much before they usually would’ve stopped, and Tim felt shame burning his ears as they returned to the Cave.

To make matters worse, Selina had asked him for a favor—there was a gang terrorizing the west part of East End, and she wanted someone to look into it, and Tim had already put it off for three days. Bruce was unlikely to let him back out, and the man was muttering something about taking tomorrow off too, so Tim waited, stretching out his time in the Cave as Bruce puttered around and finally went up to bed.

Then Tim got dressed, didn’t bother to count his batarangs, and headed back to the streets.

It was a bad idea.

He _knew_ it was a bad idea. He’d been off all evening, and instead of pushing himself he should’ve retreated and tried to relax. And Bruce was going to be _pissed_ —the last time Tim had been Robin without him hovering over his shoulder, Red Hood had beaten him to a bloody pulp.

It didn’t help that East End was a little too close to Red Hood territory for comfort—he was fairly certain that Selina’s little problem wasn’t on Hood’s radar, because then it would’ve already been dealt with. Explosively.

But that didn’t stop him from glancing over his shoulder at every stop—nearly taking a nasty spill off an apartment building when his foot slipped—and swallowing past the prickling dancing down his spine.

_It’s okay_ , Tim tried to tell himself, _Jason isn’t hunting you_.

It didn’t quite stick.

_If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead_ was more depressing, but also more believable. A half-inch deeper, and the slice across his throat would’ve hit an artery—Tim would’ve bled out in _seconds_ , instead of watching steel boots stalk away in graying vision and waking up in the Batcave medbay.

Hood wasn’t here. Hood wasn’t here, because this was not his territory, and also because Bruce might actually fire Tim if he snuck out on his own and ran into the man that had confined him to crutches for four weeks.

Tim made it to the location Selina had given him, and started his patrol. The streets were quiet—it was almost two in the morning, and there weren’t many stragglers left in the alleys. Tim passed the homeless hiding in their ragged shelters, pausing to distribute a few of the protein bars he had in his pockets, and slipped in and out of alleyways, Robin’s bright colors attracting more attention than he was comfortable with.

Unfortunately, attention was the reason Robin had bright colors. A vivid lure for the darkness lurking in the shadows. A dangling bait for people to get too close and see the strength behind the eye-catching uniform.

A dangerous enticement for a gang of common thugs getting too big for their boots.

Not brave enough to take on Hood and his territory, and also cowardly enough to stick to the fringes of the East End, puffed up on false bravado and arrogance.

“Well, well, boys, looks like we caught a little bird,” the one blocking off the mouth of the alley drawled, his compatriots cutting off the alleyway behind him and creeping forward. Tim counted six men.

He snapped out his bo staff.

The thing people always failed to realize was that Robin wasn’t a _robin_. Robin was an anglerfish, and sharp teeth lurked right behind that bright light.

Tim grinned.

~#~

Tim should’ve been able to take out six petty thugs in a narrow alleyway. Throw down a smoke bomb, lash out with the staff, leave them with splitting headaches and sprained wrists and enough bruises to thoroughly regret their actions. Rinse and repeat over the next few days, and they’d either get the message or escalate—and escalating meant it was easier to call the cops.

The smoke bomb nearly exploded in his face, sending him coughing and gagging, and he barely managed to get the bo staff up in time to block the punch. Jumping out of the way of the kick sent him stumbling back into the dumpster, and he banged his hipbone against the edge.

He couldn’t quite regain his balance, twisting through motions that were a step above flailing, staff suddenly clumsy in his arms, even though he’d done this a hundred times before. _Drugged_ , the analytical part of his mind questioned, but nothing pinged on his checklist, his mind was clear, nothing was foggy, he just _kept making mistakes_.

An elbow to the face, glancing off his nose and cracking one lens of his mask.

The edge of his staff catching against brick, forcing him to duck and swear as a punch clipped the side of his skull.

His right ankle twisting painfully as he spun to face a new opponent, sparks shooting up his leg as he tried to bend and block at the same time and ended up getting a kick to the ribs—he wheezed, but it didn’t feel like it had broken anything, and Tim straightened to lash out with a hard strike, sending the man stumbling back.

A fist twisting in the material of his cape—Tim choked as the material yanked at his neck, and the clasps weren’t automatically disengaging, and he had to halt attacking to fumble at the clasps of the cape until the fabric ripped away to the jeers of the men surrounding him.

“Look, boys,” the man sneered, holding the shapeless cape afloat like a trophy, “We got his feathers!”

Now the idiot thugs of Gotham couldn’t apparently tell the difference from bulletproof weave and bird feathers.

Tim—Tim was _exhausted_. He could feel it seeping into his bones, flaring with every misstep. This night had not gone as intended, not from the very start, and Tim wanted to curl into bed and forget this day ever happened.

“Good thing I don’t need them to fly,” Tim retorted, lunging out with his bo staff.

The lack of weight around his shoulders was tripping him up, he felt strangely exposed, and he just wanted to _end this stupid fight_. He could tell Selina that it would take longer than expected, and she could find someone else to scare away these thugs if that didn’t work for her. He knew—he _knew_ that taking a moment to calm down was the best solution for being stuck in a negative spiral, but he couldn’t help pushing, determined to get _something_ out of the night, and now he was paying for it.

His swings weren’t getting full force behind them, too constrained by the narrow space, and one of the men had a knife, jaggedly tearing his cape into strips before throwing the pieces at him. They fluttered in the air and Tim set his jaw—that knife was getting too close for comfort, and Tim decided to abandon his position, going for higher ground.

It was easy enough to scramble on top of the dumpster and—

Fire burned down his left calf and Tim yelped, jerking back away from the knife before it could go any deeper. He could feel the wetness oozing down his leg, and he fumbled for his grapple. This was going very badly, and Tim was going to get out before he _couldn’t_ get out.

A deliberate scrape of boot on gravel. A low cough. “You the 21st Street Lions?” a mechanized voice drawled.

Oh _shit_.

Tim abandoned the grapple and just leapt for the fire escape. He needed to get out of here _now_. It was too much to hope that Hood hadn’t spotted him, and Tim needed to hide, to run, to get away before Hood finished the job he’d started in Titans Tower.

The Lions apparently had more guts than sense, because they took one look at the Red Hood and started shooting.

Tim snagged the edge of the fire escape, doing an easy pull-up to shift his grip to the railing—Hood was sauntering forward, gun in hand, not even trying to dodge, wow, he was confident of his body armor—

Something slammed into his left ankle, and Tim lost his grip on the fire escape.

_Bullet_ , his mind assessed logically, there was no other way a projectile that small could hit with such force. His boots were reinforced, they would’ve stopped the strike, but he landed on his feet and instantly crumpled.

Right leg squeezing painfully, stinging pain slicing up trembling muscles, and left ankle _shrieking_ , buckling under his weight and sending him crashing to his knees. Tim couldn’t breathe for a stretching moment, and then sucked in ragged, too-shallow breaths as he tried to twist back to the fight.

Yelps and screams and shouts and more gunshots, and Tim kept himself pressed to the side of the dumpster as he calculated a likely exit. Hood had come from the street, so Tim’s best bet was to head down the alleyway—the fire escape was no longer an option, the grapple would leave him a target, and Tim just needed to get away fast enough that Hood wouldn’t consider it worth his time to chase him.

He tried to get up. He tried to roll his weight back onto his ankles—to jump up, to hobble forward, to hide behind a cape he no longer had and slink into the shadows that wouldn’t conceal him because a wounded anglerfish was just easy prey—

But was thwarted by a blinding surge of agony.

The world almost went white. His knees crumpled under the onslaught, and Tim couldn’t grab at anything to compensate. He landed back on the asphalt, _hard_ , and felt exhaustion swell, his eyes prickling.

One ankle throbbing in shooting streaks of pain—he’d definitely broken something, it felt white-hot and swollen—the other calf spasming, blood dripping to the ground, cramping up because Tim had forgotten to stretch before he’d gone out and he was so _tired_ and he didn’t have the energy to force himself through the pain.

Not even as the sounds of the fight died. Not even as booted footsteps headed in his direction. Not even at the imminent prospect of his slow and torturous death.

Tim hunched his shoulders, balled fists trembling against the ground—he felt bare without his cape, exposed and vulnerable—and didn’t look up. The prickling washed all over his face, tears oozing from the crack in his lens, and he shuddered, stuck on his knees, head bowed.

He tried to be silent, shaking with suppressed sobs, but he couldn’t help the sharp gasp at the scuffing sound right in front of him, steel-toed boots gleaming in his blurry vision.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t even get off his knees.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut and trembled with every hitched breath. He hoped that Hood just got it over with. That he’d slaked his bloodlust by killing everyone else in the encounter, and was merciful enough to make this quick.

He tried to force himself to take deep breaths. There was no point in panicking, not when he knew what was coming, there was no point in _trembling_ , he—he needed to take a breath and—and—

Something heavy and warm settled over his shoulders. Tim momentarily forgot to be silent in his surprise, a sob echoing loudly in the night, and the warmth was drawn over him, covering his back and half his arms.

Tim clutched the soft weight closer, and curled up as much as he dared, hiccupping on sobs as his legs quivered beneath him. Waiting was a torturous game—but Hood was apparently not inclined to end it quickly, because second after agonizing second ticked by with nothing, not even a _sound_.

The steel-toed boots had disappeared from his vision and Tim waited, near-breathless, for them to come back—to snap up into his face or slam into his side or grind down onto his broken ankle, oh _god_ , why wasn’t Hood _doing_ anything?

Was he waiting for Tim to let down his guard? Was he contemplating how to attack him first? Was he—was he even still _here_?

That would be pretty pathetic, if Tim had just spent the last three minutes sobbing on the ground and Hood had already left. He warily uncurled enough to raise his head—red helmet, on asphalt, just a few short feet away, and a gloved hand curled on top of it and—

Jason Todd stared at him, face bared to a domino mask, leaning against the alley wall five feet away. His knees were bent, one arm resting on top of them, hands empty and guns holstered, leather jacket missing to reveal the dark, sleek body armor underneath.

Tim couldn’t read his expression. But Hood—Jason—Hood wasn’t attacking, and Tim uncurled further, straightening—and _that_ was a bad decision, his weight shifted above his wounds and Tim suppressed the sharp cry and inelegantly toppled sideways to spare his probably-broken ankle.

He forced his knees straight, biting hard on his lip as the broken ankle dragged painfully across the ground, and half-crawled back using an elbow and a hand, until he was slumped against brick and panting, legs awkwardly stretched out in front of him.

Hood shifted, and Tim squeezed his eyes shut again, taking ragged breaths. He wanted his bo staff—not that he thought it would do him any good, but he wanted something to clutch as he resisted the urge to curl up into a small ball.

“What happened?” came the low, raspy voice, right in front of him. Tim squeezed his eyes _tighter_ , unwilling to see what was happening.

He had to answer Hood though. Had to hope that cooperation would mitigate some of the agony. It wasn’t like Hood was incapable of figuring it out, and if he knew where his injuries were right off the bat, the pain would be localized.

Tim imagined a gloved hand clamping down on his boot and _twisting_ , and had to suppress the shiver.

“Left ankle,” Tim croaked out, “Broken. Knife wound on right calf.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek as a hand closed around his left calf, lifting it slightly to tug at his boot. It was eased off _slowly_ and Tim drew his hands around himself, clutching tight and shaking as Hood kept his pace tauntingly steady.

The boot finally slipped off and Tim ducked his head as he felt fingers press along the swelling, poking—he waited for them to _squeeze_ , to push and yank and—he couldn’t help the jolt and quiet yelp as the fingers pressed too hard on a sore spot.

“Sorry,” came the mutter, and the fingers backed off. Tim waited, but they didn’t come back, and he could hear faints signs of rustling. What was Hood planning?

Tim squinted his eyes open to see Hood unwrapping a roll of athletic tape. What—what was he—Tim blinked as Hood began to wrap his ankle, the tape pressing painfully tight against the swelling—but stabilizing it. It hurt, but it was a decent splint until Tim could get actual medical attention.

The last time Tim had been this close to Hood, he’d gotten his throat slit, and now Hood was _wrapping his wounds_.

Tim briefly wondered if he accidentally stepped into an alternate dimension.

Hood finished with his ankle, white lenses of the mask flashing up to his face for a second before moving to his right leg. Hood exchanged the tape for gauze, and quickly and efficiently dressed the shallow scrape, his grip firm but not tight.

Tim watched him, still stunned.

When he was done, he leaned back on his heels, watching Tim, his expression unreadable. “The old man not in town?” he asked finally.

“What?” Tim rasped.

“The Bat not in town? I didn’t know he let you take solo patrols.” The words were chilling, but the tone was blank. Deliberately emotionless.

“I—no, he’s in town,” Tim decided to go for the truth—Bruce had already been out on patrol earlier that night, it would be easy to disprove a lie.

“There some reason you haven’t called him yet?” Hood asked, straightening—he was practically looming over Tim now and Tim hunched back into the wall, wary eyes fixed on the taller, broader, older boy. “Your comm broken?” Hood began rummaging in his pockets, “I think I have a phone—”

“No!” burst from his mouth without his conscious permission. Hood stilled, looking down at him, and Tim shrank back.

“…No?”

“Don’t call him,” Tim said nervously—if Bruce knew that he’d snuck out, gotten injured, _and_ ran into Hood—Tim doubted he’d be able to go out as Robin this _year_.

On the other hand, if Tim was brutally murdered by Hood in this alley—still an option on the table, though becoming increasingly less likely—he’d get to be Robin again _never_.

“Dickhead in town?” Hood asked after a pause, phone still in his hand. Tim shook his head—Dick wasn’t scheduled to come back from Bludhaven till the weekend. Hood took a deep breath, and crouched down until he was at Tim’s eye level, “Kid, you’re shaking. You need someone to come pick you up.”

Tim didn’t meet his gaze, staring at his knees. Bruce would be furious. Alfred would tell Bruce. Dick would take at least thirty minutes to get here. His dad might actually kill him—shit, he was going to have to explain the broken ankle to him, that wasn’t going to be fun.

“Robin,” Hood growled, tone a little deeper, and Tim curled his shoulders, pressing further against the brick and tugging the soft warm…jacket? Why was there a brown leather jacket around his shoulders?

Tim eyed the uncovered body armor, and looked down at the jacket again.

Huh.

“Are you planning on sitting in this alley all night? _Someone_ is going to have to pick you up sooner or later. Just give me a number.”

“I’m fine,” Tim said quietly, “I can manage.”

“Kid, you can’t even get up. Either you give me a number, or I’m taking you to the clinic—shit, today’s Thursday.”

Hood was right. The clinic wasn’t open at night on Thursdays.

“Okay—either you tell me who to call now, or I’m taking you to the closest safehouse while you figure it out.”

Tim stared at his knees, feeling his fingers trembling where they were clutching the jacket. His face was prickling again, too-hot and too-tight—he didn’t want to listen to Bruce’s lecture or Alfred’s admonishments, he didn’t want to go home and spin another set of lies for his dad, he was _exhausted_ and he’d had a horrible night and he—he just wanted to curl up somewhere safe.

“Shit,” someone cursed, and Tim gasped around a sob as careful fingers wrapped around his elbow. They tugged his grip away from the jacket—no, _no_ , they couldn’t take it back, Tim _needed_ it—“Shh, kid, you’ll feel warmer when you’re wearing it properly.”—and Tim let the tears trickle down as his arms were manipulated through the sleeves.

The jacket was too big for him, the sleeves stretched to his fingertips, but it was _warm_ and Tim hiccupped as it was zipped up, cocooning him in the soft weight.

“Okay, Robin,” came the quiet voice, “You get four options—I call B. I—I drop you off at the Manor. I get you a change of clothes and take you to the hospital. Or I take you to the closest safehouse and call Dickhead.”

Tim swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Four,” he said, not looking up. He—he wanted someone who would hold him without yelling at him, and Dick was the only option.

“Alright. How are we doing this?” the mechanized tone was back and Tim snapped his gaze up. Jason was still sitting next to him, now with the helmet on, staring at Tim with blank impassivity. “Before you start, you’re _not_ walking on a broken ankle, so your choice, kid—piggyback, fireman, princess, or koala.”

The words sounded funny in the distorted tone. “Piggyback,” Tim whispered, uncertain whether it was a trick—was Jason actually going to turn his back to him?

But that was exactly what he did. Turned around, still squatting, and waited for Tim.

Tim pushed himself up on a hand, and bent the relatively less injured leg, hissing as his broken ankle was jostled. He pretty much crumpled against Jason’s back, but strong hands caught his wrists before he could slip off.

“Hold,” Jason instructed, crossing Tim’s arms around his throat. Around his _throat_. If Tim shifted slightly, he could turn this into a chokehold, and knock Jason out. Jason didn’t seem concerned, scooping up his legs by hooking his hands under Tim’s knees, and straightened easily out of the squat.

Tim made a small, surprised sound—the ground was suddenly much further away than it had been before—and clutched tightly at Jason’s shoulders. A fall from the height wasn’t dangerous, but jarring his broken ankle would definitely be painful.

Jason made no comment, other than to remark that his safehouse was two blocks away. Tim had to wonder what nosy eyes were thinking—the Red Hood, carrying a kid on his back, strolling through the East End. The leather jacket concealed most of the red and greens of his uniform, and his cape was gone, but Tim ducked his head to be sure no one could get too close a look at his domino mask.

“So, is there any particular reason you didn’t want me to call B, or…?”

“I didn’t want to get a lecture,” Tim sighed, “He’s annoyed enough that I messed up patrol and got there late because I couldn’t leave home early enough.”

Jason’s silence stretched for a beat. “Leave…home?” he asked, sounding faintly strangled.

“Yes,” Tim murmured, still grumbling at the thought of it, “My dad locked me in my room.”

Jason’s steps stuttered, and Tim realized what it sounded like. “No,” he wheezed, “Not like that. He was just pissed about my grades and wanted me to study.”

“Pissed about your grades,” Jason repeated slowly, “ _How_ pissed?”

Tim realized that Jason had gotten entirely the wrong idea. “Not—not like that,” Tim said, and almost mentioned ‘forget it’, but everyone knew that Hood helped out abused kids and Tim didn’t need him getting the wrong idea. “I—it was my fault, he had to sign my report card but he kept forgetting, and I interrupted his TV time, and I knew he wasn’t in a good mood. I could’ve planned it better.”

Jason didn’t say anything for a long moment—they were nearly at the safehouse. “Planned it better?” he asked finally.

“I—just—you know. Parents in a bad mood, you don’t piss them off even more.” The whole reason he wasn’t calling Bruce right now. “It’s just—my dad has good days and bad, after the injury, and I should’ve realized it was a bad day.”

Jason made a noncommittal hum as they entered an unassuming apartment building. Apparently the conversation wasn’t over, because Jason asked, “What do you mean by a bad day?”

Tim had no idea why they were still talking about this. “He just—his moods fluctuate. It’s because of his injury. He’s just…snappish, sometimes.” Tim didn’t mention the time his dad had thrown a glass at his head—it had missed, Tim had never been in any danger, and the violent outbursts had calmed over time.

“Some injuries will do that,” Jason said, and Tim breathed a sigh of relief at the agreement, “Especially head trauma.” He let go of one of Tim’s legs to unlock the door and punch in the code for the security system—it was a perfectly modest apartment, no torture den in sight.

Of course, Jason didn’t _need_ a torture den to hurt him, but that didn’t stop Tim from relaxing, some part of himself uncurling and whispering _safe, safe, safe_.

Jason gently deposited Tim on the couch and went further into the apartment—Tim eased his broken leg up, and wondered if he should take the jacket off. If he could keep it forever, relishing in the curl of warmth.

Jason came back, sans mask, helmet, armor and gear, changed into more comfortable clothes. He tossed the solvent bottle at Tim, and Tim tested it on a patch of skin near his wrist before bringing it anywhere near his eyes.

The mask peeled off slowly, irritating the growing bruise blooming across his right eye, and Tim breathed a sigh of relief when it was off. “Any injuries you _haven’t_ told me about?” Jason asked, voice level.

“Just bruises,” Tim said hoarsely, and Jason disappeared again, this time into a different room. He came back with water and what looked like a bottle of pills, and Tim eyed it with wary trepidation.

“Over-the-counter painkillers,” Jason said, tossing the bottle to him, “Your choice.” His ankle _was_ throbbing unpleasantly, but Tim didn’t know whether he could trust them. Dick should be here soon anyway.

Sure enough, the next thing Jason lobbed at him was a phone. “The address is already entered,” Jason said, “Text Big Bird.”

Tim kept the text simple, saying that he was at a friend’s place and needed a lift. He pondered over adding _‘don’t tell Bruce’_ , but finally decided that that would make Dick too suspicious. He rarely talked to Bruce anyway, so it should be fine.

Jason didn’t check the message, or ask for his phone back. He returned with a blanket and Tim took it hesitantly—Jason was being oddly…solicitous.

He almost asked him if he’d been stolen from an alternate dimension, but decided not to push his luck.

“So,” Jason said, “How is your dad doing?”

Tim stared at him for a moment, before realizing that Jason was trying to make _small talk_. Definitely an alternate dimension. But Tim was going to enjoy it while it lasted.

“Good?” Tim tried—he realized he was taking up the whole couch, and scooted to leave enough place for Jason to sit. “I—he’s getting better at standing for long periods of time, the physical therapy is going well.”

“You guys have a live-in nurse or something, or does someone stop by?” Jason asked, taking a seat. Tim suppressed the shiver and resisted the urge to creep away—if Jason wanted to hurt him, he could’ve done a lot worse by now.

“Uh, stops by. Once a week,” Tim answered, carefully not mentioning which day. “But he’s getting better, and I can help him most of the time.”

Something flashed over Jason’s face, too fast to catch. “Right,” he said neutrally.

Tim yawned—Dick would get here in an hour maybe, and then it was _another_ half-hour to Bludhaven, and Tim needed to get his ankle splinted, and then make it back home before his dad realized he snuck out, and he was _exhausted_.

“I can get you a pillow if you want to sleep,” Jason offered, observing him with those intense green eyes.

“N—no,” Tim said through another yawn, “I—can’t.” He motioned to his head and winced, the sharp pulsing behind his eyes was aggravated every time he shifted his gaze.

Jason raised a hand, then hesitated. “I can try something that’ll help?” he offered uncertainly. Tim eyed him warily, but unless his idea of ‘helping’ was driving a stake through his skull, Tim was willing to attempt anything to get a reprieve from his throbbing headache.

Jason’s hand drifted up—Tim tensed—and settled in his hair. Tim blinked at him as Jason slowly began combing through his hair, avoiding knots and drawing gentle lines of pressure down his skull.

This—this felt pretty good, actually.

Tim didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until his head tipped sideways, unwilling to stay upright. Jason chuckled, but didn’t stop stroking—“Here,” he murmured, catching Tim’s shoulders and easing him down, until Tim’s face was pillowed against a thigh, “This’ll be easier.”

“Mhm,” Tim agreed, feeling the tension drain out of his body. The blanket was tucked more firmly around him, and warmth lazily curled into his bones.

_Red Hood_ , some part of his mind shrieked, a blaring alarm for danger that went largely ignored. Tim didn’t care if Jason wanted to slit his throat again, as long as he didn’t stop stroking.

Careful fingertips drew across his scalp, the barest hint of nails, before shifting to letting his hair slide through closed fingers, ending in a soft tug before the locks were released and the pressure started again. Rhythmic and soothing, drawing out the tension across his scalp, easing the pulsing ache and sending him drifting softly into a melting cloud as he sank deeper into the haze.

He dimly registered the faint sound of a phone ringing.

“ _Hello?_ ” a tinny voice responded after several rings.

“Hello, old man,” Jason said, voice tight, “How have you been?”

There was a long silence, and then some tinny crackling.

“Yeah, just out of curiosity, are you missing something?”

Fingers carded softly through his hair, gentle strokes, leaving him on the edge of sleep even as the conversation drifted over him.

“I don’t know—something like a little bird, perhaps?”

This time the tinny sounds were louder. Jason chuckled, low and dark. The fingers brushed the bangs out of his face and Tim could hear the _click_ of a false shutter.

“Look at him,” Jason murmured, “So peaceful when he’s sleeping.”

The tinny sounds were crackling too loud to distinguish any words, but the tone was distinctly furious.

“I saw an opportunity and I took it, B, isn’t that what you trained us for?” Jason asked, “And better me than someone else—at least I’m calling for a ransom.”

That was definitely shouting.

“Oh wait,” Jason said suddenly, cutting off the shouting, “You’re not his guardian anymore, right? Sent him back to his dad? So I suppose I should be directing my ransom call to _him_.”

Tim stirred, still too hazy to make out details, but with enough consciousness to know that calling his dad was a _very bad idea_. The fingers just adjusted position though, tracing gentle strokes around his face, and Tim slowly melted back into the fog.

“Oh, B, you should’ve thought of that before you relinquished guardianship. You should’ve thought about a lot of things. Maybe done your research on whether Jack Drake is fit to be a father at all.”

What—his dad was a good parent, what was Jason _talking_ about—

“Oh, really? Let me ask you this. Who’s Drake’s primary caretaker?”

The fog was making it difficult to think, and Jason’s voice was quiet, the strokes soothing. Tim was quickly losing the energy to keep listening.

“Kids shouldn’t have to take care of their parents, Bruce.”

The fingers curled slightly, as though trying to gather up Tim’s hair, but it was too short for that.

“This is my only offer—show me signed custody papers, and I’ll let him go.”

The strokes were interspersed with gentle tugging, and Tim lost the battle for consciousness.

* * *

Tim didn’t know what woke him up—he was sleepy and warm, cocooned in softness. His ankle was throbbing and his whole body ached, but exhaustion clutched at him, and the gentle pressure combing through his hair continued in a soothing rhythm.

“Get away from him,” someone snarled, low and furious, and Tim realized that the rapidly crackling tension might’ve been the cause.

“Bit difficult right now,” someone else replied, sounding faintly strangled.

“ _Let him go_.”

The rhythm stuttered, then stilled. Fingers slowly withdrew from his hair— _no,_ where were they _going_ , Tim could already feel the headache coming back. He made a low, wordless sound of protest and reluctantly extracted a hand from the warmth to grope around for the magic fingers and drag them back.

They slowly started stroking again. Tim made a pleased noise as the gentle pressure came back.

“Sorry Dickhead, guess you’ve been outvoted.”

The tension fizzled to something more confused and surprised. It was giving him a headache. He needed everybody to _go away_ and let him sleep.

“Tim,” a low voice rumbled, “Tim, sweetheart, can you look at me please?”

If he _had_ to. Tim grumbled and cracked his eyes open—Bruce was crouching in front of him, dressed in the Batman suit and cowl off. He looked worried, but he cracked a small smile when Tim met his gaze.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asked softly.

“Tired,” Tim mumbled, hoping Bruce would take it as a hint. He didn’t. “Ankle hurts. Head hurts. Want to sleep.”

“Tim, what were you doing out in your suit?”

Oh. Oh shit. Tim squeezed his eyes shut and retreated, back into the warmth, pressing closer to—Jason, it had to be Jason, and burying his face against Jason’s thigh.

Jason didn’t try to stop him, the warmth of his hand cupping the back of his head in slow strokes.

“Tim?”

Tim took a shuddering breath. He was wrung out, and he’d wanted _Dick_ , not Bruce, and he just—he was tired of trying to placate everyone in his life—“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what, sweetheart?”

For sneaking out on patrol. For messing up. For being late. For being unable to deal with six common thugs. For being too pathetic to even get away and hide.

“Everything,” Tim choked out.

A low growl vibrated against him, and there was a sound like someone was gnashing their teeth.

“Tim, it’s okay,” Bruce said, still soft. The softness had to be a lie.

“You aren’t mad?” Tim asked quietly.

A long pause. “I’m a little upset,” Bruce said quietly, “I thought you were in trouble. But right now, let’s focus on getting you checked out and back in bed, okay?”

That sounded like a fantastic plan. “No yelling,” Tim entreated, “Not now.” He had no illusions that the gentle tone would last forever.

“Tim,” Bruce said, sounding startled, “I’m not going to yell at you.”

Right. Bruce didn’t yell. He was getting everyone mixed up. “Sorry,” Tim mumbled, “Not you. I know.” He was so _sleepy_. But he had to get up and face the lecture.

Tim took one last second to revel in the soft warmth before sitting up, bracing himself on an elbow and easing upright and blinking at the room.

Bruce was still crouched in front of them, Jason was sitting on the couch, Nightwing standing behind the couch—and holding one of his escrima against Jason’s collarbones. “What’re you doing?” Tim grumbled—Dick was supposed to come _alone_.

Dick released the escrima with what looked like great reluctance. “Nothing,” he muttered, scowling down at Jason, who was smirking up at him.

“I still want to see those custody papers,” Jason warned as Bruce reached forward and practically scooped Tim up—Tim clutched his shoulders and flushed, he was too old to be carried like this, but it felt nice.

“I’ll get my lawyers on it,” Bruce said and Tim frowned—what were they talking about?—and Bruce paused and looked down at Jason. “Though, if they’re getting paperwork done anyway…”

Jason looked confused for a long moment before his expression hardened. “No,” he said definitively.

“Jay—”

“I said _no_!”

“Jason, the process to overturn the death certificate—”

“Maybe I _like_ being dead,” Jason snarled, surging up to his feet, “You ever think of that?”

Bruce made a low, suppressed, wounded noise. Dick’s expression had gone from tightly furious to mournful. Jason’s expression flickered, hanging onto enraged by a thread.

Tim stretched out a hand—he was still wearing the leather jacket—and gave Jason his best pleading look. If there was even a _chance_ that Bruce would get Jason back, this whole, horrible night would’ve been worth it. “Please?” he tried, blinking hopefully up at him—if Jason had gone out of his way to make sure that Tim was safe, then maybe this would work.

An anglerfish lure, and the jaws of the trap around them, too late to avoid.

Jason’s expression dissolved into displeased resignation with a heavy sigh.

**Author's Note:**

> Jason storms into the Manor, supremely pissed, two weeks after Bruce had Tim's custody quietly transferred back to him while Tim's father recuperates, and mutters something about journalists and privacy and people sticking their noses into things that don't concern them.
> 
> Bruce suggests a movie night, blinking innocently. Tim seizes the opportunity for more hair pets. Dick sulks because no one's cuddling with him, but makes up for it by taking several pictures when both Jason and Tim fall asleep. Bruce stops him when he reaches for the permanent marker.


End file.
